


Come Marching Home

by ossapher



Series: The Macaroniverse -- Lams Modern AU [12]
Category: American Revolution RPF
Genre: M/M, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-06 10:52:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5414135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ossapher/pseuds/ossapher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Laurens attempts to reconcile with his U.S. Senator dad after years of minimal contact. It's family, though, so nothing goes as planned. Sequel to "And Called It Macaroni."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: Follow up to my other fic, And Called It Macaroni. Will make less sense if you haven't read that.  
> Warnings: Emotionally-manipulative parent, abelist slur, references to severe injury, vomiting, references to prescription drug abuse  
> Genre: There’s some family drama, there’s some romance, and like a lot of my stuff it ends in an enormous pile of fluff
> 
>  **Update** : YOU GUYS THE INIMITABLE, ORIGINAL [DustySoul ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DustySoul/pseuds/DustySoul)ILLUSTRATED THIS AAAAAH! (I bet you thought they just wrote fic, but they are, in fact, MULTITALENTED)
> 
>  
> 
> [Lafayette and the Tesla](http://dusty-soul.tumblr.com/image/135182035406)
> 
>  
> 
> [Lams smooching](http://dusty-soul.tumblr.com/image/135341471196)

John's arm is still in a sling, and unfortunately his posture has paid the price. He rubs the soreness from his neck as he perches on a stool at Popeye's, waiting for his dad to show. The weather outside is what they call "wintery mix," and John's sure his dad’s commute will be nasty. He might be late.

Henry Laurens appears in a gust of cold air, dusting snowflakes off the shoulders of his heavy black coat. Right on time. "Jack, there you are." He goes in for a handshake—smart; John wouldn't have allowed a hug. "You've got to work on that eye contact, son. Shake hands like an honest man."

"Huh. Guess I've always tried… being honest. My mistake."

Henry Laurens checks his watch. "Your sister's tennis lesson ends in a little over half an hour. What do you say we surprise her, eh? Be there to pick her up?"

John balks for a moment. He'd wanted to have this meeting in a public, high-traffic area because his dad is most dangerous on his own territory. Bigwig U.S. Senator he may be, but the good people of Popeye's Chicken simply do not give a rat's ass. On the other hand, Chandler Park, where Mary gets her lessons, is only a ten-minute walk away. And it's just as public as a fast-food restaurant, give or take.

"Number fifty-four!" the girl behind the counter cries. John goes to pick up his chicken. A furrow appears between Henry's eyebrows, quickly smoothed away. John allows himself a small internal smirk. His dad's disconcerted that his precious son would actually eat at this place.

"Sure," John decides. "You're not gonna order anything?"

"No, I'm… I'm on a diet."

"Your loss." They step outside into the swirling snow, one of Dad's omnipresent black cars idling, double-parked, out front. "The Cadi? Just to get to the park?"

"It's icy out. I don’t want either of us to slip."

"I'll be fine, I promise." Having one arm in a sling does throw off John's balance a little; he almost wiped out in the slush on the way to Popeye's. But he doesn’t like the idea of getting into a car with his dad.

"Fine or not, Marcel is double-parked." A car turns down their little one-way street, pulls up behind, and blasts a furious note on its horn. Unperturbed, Henry continues. “Of course, I could get them to waive the ticket, but I do recall that you disapprove of that particular perk of—"

John scowls, tosses his lunch in the backseat, and piles in behind it, scooting awkwardly across to allow Henry to sit. Catching a glance of the chauffeur's dark eyes in the rearview mirror, John plainly reads, _sorry, kid_. The car smoothly accelerates forward as John fumbles one-handed with his seat belt. Without asking, Henry takes the buckle and fastens him in.

They hang an unexpected left. "I think you're lost, Marcel," John says, "Chandler Park's the other way."

"We're going to the country club," Henry says.

"But you said—Mary's tennis lessons—"

"Are now taking place at Alabaster Springs. Which you would know, if you devoted even a fraction of your time to this family." A faint note of pride enters Henry's voice as he says, "She made all-state this year." They merge onto the interstate, suburbia-bound.

“Good for her," John says, bringing out his phone and texting a quick **sos** to Alex. He's got a meeting with Washington and some other guy for the summer camp thing he's doing—he probably won't see it for another hour. Leaving John to fend off his dad in the meantime. "Did you tell her how great she is?"

Henry sniffs, then winces; the entire car smells like fried chicken. They're probably going to have to deep-clean it before he brings foreign dignitaries in here. "I don't want her to get overconfident."

"I'll tell her, then."

Henry presses on. "She’s got dedication. A real strategic eye. She's going to make quite the lawyer one day. You can see it in the way she plays.”

 _I wouldn't bet on it_ , John thinks, but says nothing. He won't fight Mary's battles for her. For one, his dad was right about him being out of touch; for all he knows, Mary really does want to be a lawyer. For two, he has enough battles of his own right now. Like the fact that a cab back from the country club would cost a small fortune. And getting an Uber is going to be literally impossible because it's in a gated community—the same gated community, incidentally, where John spent his summers. John wonders if his dad has sold the house now that most of his kids have moved out, or if he's still hanging on to it. More likely the second.

The view outside the window disconcertingly familiar, bare trees and snow-covered hills rolling by. It would be pretty, if it didn't represent miles and miles of country John is going to have to cross before he can be home again. Fuck. He might be dependent on his dad for a ride home. Which, no doubt, is exactly what Henry intended.

"I'm sure you've been following the budget negotiations," Henry says. The man never transitions; when conversation on one subject runs out or grows awkward, he shifts to another as smoothly as Marcel shifts lanes in the Cadillac.

"I thought Barbara Boxer made some great points," John says, picking a liberal Democrat at random.

Henry chuckles. "Nice try. Good to know you're still picking people to associate with based solely on their opposition to me."

Ah, yes. The ol' _world-revolves-around-me_ rule. John bites his tongue, because he still needs a ride home.  

Apparently his dad doesn’t want to turn this into an all-out fight, either, because there’s a short pause, in which Marcel waves to the guards and drives through the gate to the development. "What have you done with your hair?"

"Cut it, I guess." Short on the sides, long on the top, John's hair doesn't exactly scream _100% heterosexual_. He braces for criticism. Then again, Henry's known John is gay ever since John left for college. So why is he…

"Hm. Mary's been thinking about cutting hers that way," Henry says. "You'd match."

 _Siblings in… gay?_ John thinks hopefully. That would be too perfect.

They pull up to the clubhouse, Marcel jumping out and opening John's door for him before John can so much as gather up his fried chicken. He steps awkwardly out, Marcel helping him avoid overbalancing on the slick pavement. John looks around, feeling a disconcerting wave of nostalgia. He has a lot of good memories here. Swimming in the Olympic-sized pool with his mom, learning to play golf with his dad, riding horses around the trails... of course, back then, he'd never thought about how elitist/classist/racist/ all the –ists Alabaster Springs is. Alex, for example—they'd take one look at him and hand him a net to skim leaves out of the pool. If John's ever comfortable here again, that'll be a sign part of his soul has died.

"Aren't we going to the tennis courts?" he asks his dad, who is walking towards the clubhouse. "Mary's lesson should be done in"—he checks his phone—"five minutes."

"Oh, my mistake," says Henry, pretending to check his own phone. "Her lesson ends at 1:30, not 12:30. You won't mind getting a quick meal? I have a reservation at the steakhouse."

The lie is almost insultingly flimsy. "I brought my own lunch," says John coldly, holding up his bag of Popeye's.

Henry's facial expression doesn't change, but his shoulders stiffen. Marcel gives John a covert warning look before getting back in the Cadillac and driving it over to the covered parking.

If Marcel's nervous, John's nervous. The guy knows his dad better than anyone. "…but I guess I can eat it inside," he tacks on.

Henry's shoulders don't relax, but he smiles a smile as honest as his handshake. "You always were stubborn. I think you get it from me."

John makes his way carefully to the sidewalk. The pavement is slick with black ice. He doesn't want to fall on his already-injured arm: in PT the other day he barely jarred it and almost passed out. John barely saves himself from falling and thinks, _I probably look like motherfucking Bambi right now_.

Henry sees his difficulty and moves closer, offering his arm in support.

"I got it," John says, watching his own feet. He doesn't take Henry's arm, but Henry doesn't leave his side, either. To get to the clubhouse, they have to walk along a flagstone path traversing an expansive lawn. And so they shuffle in silence, inch by inch, the hundred feet to the clubhouse door.

"Welcome, Senator Laurens," the hostess greets them when they finally get there, like she hasn't seen them coming through the picture windows for the last five minutes. "Your table is ready, if you would please follow me, sir." There's only one other table occupied, a middle-aged couple John vaguely recognizes. He thinks he used to play with their kids.

The hostess sets them down at a booth right next to the merrily-crackling fireplace. She doesn't bat an eye when John throws his bag of chicken onto the table before sitting down. Then again, she's had five minutes to prepare her poker face.

"The usual for you, sir?" their waitress asks, appearing seconds later.

"Yes, Paloma, and the usual wine as well. And the filet mignon, medium, for my son."

John sighs. "You can order whatever you want for me, but I doubt I'll be able to fit it in after I finish this prime fried chicken."

"One rare New York strip steak and one medium filet mignon, coming right out," says Paloma, her smile slipping for a microsecond. John feels bad. He and the waitress are both trapped in here with his dad; he shouldn't make her uncomfortable. But it's almost worth it to see his dad struggle to maintain a neutral expression as he uncrinkles the paper bag and draws out a greasy cardboard container.

"Sure you don't want some?" he asks, holding out a cold chicken leg.

Henry narrows his eyes. "I'm buying you a new coat."

"This coat is fine."

"You've had it since high school."

"And it's still warm."

"It's too short in the arm. It's out of style.  And the color is childish."

"I like red."

"What happened to your other coat? The black one. Burberry, wasn’t it?"

John's graduation present. "Lost it." He'd ripped the labels out and given it to Alex.

Henry pinches the bridge of his nose. "I'm trying to help you, Jack. I really am. I don’t see why you have to fight me every step of the way."

"I don't see why you have to carry me every step of the way," John says. "Every step of the way, to the place that I don't even want to go."

"At least tell me how your arm is doing."

Finally, the question he's been expecting from the start. He'd decided with himself ahead of time that he was going to be honest here. Lying to dad about whether he follows politics is one thing; lying to him about his health is another. "The wound itself is healing well. It's not infected, and it was a through-and-through shot, so there was minimal damage to the surrounding tissue. I'm in physical therapy now."

Henry blinks, clearly not having expected such a succinct and sarcasm-free response.

"Can I go now?" John asks, making to rise from the table.

"How is physical therapy going? What kind of mobility do you have?"

 _Do I have a cripple for a son?_ John hears. He sighs. "It's… complicated. There's a small shard of bone they missed in the first surgery"—because they were too busy keeping his nicked artery from hemorrhaging out all the blood in his body, not that he's going to say that—"and in the reconstruction, and it's up against the nerve. Right now I can move my elbow and sort of move my fingers, but if I straighten my arm too far, the bone hits the nerve and it hurts. So that kind of limits what I can do in physical therapy."

"Medical incompetence. We should sue for malpractice."

"They're my coworkers, Dad, and they saved my life."

Henry frowns, not pressing the point. "What can they do about this… shard?"

"They plan to do another surgery to fish it out. The earliest the surgeon's available is two weeks from now, so we'll do it then."

"I'll get the surgery moved up."

"Dad, no! I don't want to take someone else's place in line. I'll wait like everyone else."

"You are _my son_ and you are in _pain_ and you will _not wait_." Henry's already pulling out his phone.

John leaps to his feet, ready to—he's not even sure. Wrestle the phone away?

He crashes straight into Paloma, who carries plates holding two enormous steaks. She backpedals, both plates wobbling precariously, and he stumbles and catches himself on the tabletop, landing hard on the elbow of his bad arm.

John takes in one ragged breath through his nose, trying to stay conscious through sheer force of will. It's no good—his peripheral vision is already gone, the axis of the world tilting wildly. Someone catches his weight, and he sags against them instinctively as he slides down into the dark.

He wakes up with his head between his knees, half-leaning against a warm shape he knows is his dad. His arm is still in excruciating pain, shooting all the way down to his fingertips. His dad's rubbing his back and saying quietly, "It's okay, Jacky, I've got you. It's okay."

"Fuck," he mouths, trying to remember how to breathe. A moment later, he hears his dad talking with someone—the woman from the other table, maybe? He tries to tell them not to call the ambulance, but the sound that comes out of his face would embarrass a half-dead donkey.

"Jack?"

He minutely moves his head, which will have to be enough for his dad for now.

"Jack, what do I do? How can I help you?"

He's going to throw up, but he doesn't want to do so in his own lap. He moves his head in pretty much the only direction he can—towards his good side—and vomits half-digested Popeye's all over his dad's Italian leather shoes.

"He shoots, he scores," he giggles weakly.

"And to think we made it almost a whole seven years without you vomiting on my shoes," says Henry, but the way he says it isn't angry—more like a gentle joke. "I've got a glass of water when you're ready for it."

"You were angrier—last time…"

"I suppose I've mellowed with age." His dad clears his throat. "You probably missed it—the nice woman from the other table says she has Vicodin in her purse."

"Sign me the fuck up." He has a prescription for it anyway, but hasn't taken any for several days, and all his pills are back at the apartment. As for why the nice woman from the other table has Vicodin readily available—well, now's not the time to ask probing questions. John knocks back a little white pill and waits for it to take effect.

It takes a quarter of an hour, but the agony in his arm slowly fades. It's not gone, but it's like a song being played in another room, instead of being blasted from industrial-strength speakers a foot from his face. John sips water, his dad steadying his hold on the glass. He hates how grateful he is that he can slip into sick kid mode—how easy it is to just trust his dad unconditionally again. The drug's coming on strong—really strong.

"Hey, can I have a look at that bottle?"

The lady from the other table obliges. Huh. She has the 10 mg version. Hardcore. John's not positive—his head's pretty fuzzy—but he thinks he has the 5 at home.

"Jack, I'm serious. How do I help you right now?"

 _Alex, Alex, Alex_. John swallows hard, wishing he were here. At the very least, he would know what John's Vicodin dose is supposed to be. "I want to go home," he says, voice cracking. "Please, can you just take me home?"

"Sure, Jacky," his dad says, with a tender smile, "We can do that." John's eyes must be playing tricks on him, because Henry Laurens doesn't tear up except at carefully-choreographed campaign moments.

Henry doesn't even consult the manager of the clubhouse, just orders Marcel to drive across the immaculate lawn and park the Cadi a foot from the front door. John tries to stand, but he feels like his legs have turned to jelly, and his mind fumbles on the reason why he didn't want his dad to help him walk earlier. In the end, it's a moot point; he's so dizzy from the Vicodin that Marcel—who is a lot stronger than his sixty-year-old dad—ends up half-carrying him out to the car. He leans against the window and closes his eyes, enjoying the cold feeling on his face.

"Right," says Henry, reaching over John's shoulder and buckling him in. "Let's stop by the tennis courts and pick up Mary. Then we can take you home."

"Mhm." John says. Home. Something buzzes in his pocket. Oh, his phone. It's probably Alex. He should probably answer—tell him he's on his way back. He fumbles at his phone, but his fingers aren't working. They go over a speed bump, and his head thunks against the window. His dad moves to the middle seat and tugs Jack over, so he's leaning on his shoulder and not on the car. "Yerra good pillow, mean ol' man," John observes. "Where's your shoes?"

"Oh, hush," says his dad, but he sounds pleased.

The door on the other side of the car opens. "Jack!" Mary cries.

"Throw your racket in the trunk," Henry commands. "Your brother's trying to sleep."

"Is he okay?"

"Hadda long day, kiddo," John says. His pocket buzzes again.

There's a thud—the trunk closing—and then Mary piles in on the other side of their dad. "I didn’t know you were coming!" she gasps.

"Short…short visit," John yawns. "Dad's taking me home."

"… _home_?"

Something's wrong here and Mary knows it, but that thought is one tiny flake of snow settling against the hot blanket enveloping him. His head is growing heavy. He lets go of feeling for a while.

***

Alex has only been to Washington's house once before, at a banquet for first-gen law students at the beginning of his first year. He lives in a little town far away from the city, a fifteen-minute walk from the train station, and Alex's ears are numb by the time he arrives. Only the coffee he carries saves his fingers from a similar fate.

The house suits Washington: old but clearly well-maintained, orderly and symmetrical in design, faintly imposing without being ostentatious. The impression is thrown somewhat by the sleek white sports car in the driveway. Is Washington having a mid-life crisis? He doesn't seem the type.

Hamilton walks up the drive and rings the doorbell. "Nice car, sir," he says, as Washington ushers him and takes his coat.

"It's not mine," Washington says, regarding him with faint amusement. Not smiling, of course—he would never—but experienced Washington-watchers such as Hamilton learn to recognize the signs.  "Hamilton, meet Lafayette."

A young Middle Eastern man appears behind Washington, grinning broadly. They shake hands. "You were in Time magazine," Alex blurts out. "Like, the 30 Under 30 thing they did."

Lafayette shrugs modestly. "All I had done at that point was inherit a pile of money. Now I am trying to do something with it."

Wow. Alex is used to embarrassingly high levels of sincerity—he lives with John, after all—but not so soon after meeting someone. "That's…great." He tries to remember the details of the article he read. Lafayette’s crazy stupid rich, right? Like, the cousin of the sheikh of one of those little oil-rich countries. But he’s got a French accent. Alex wonders if it's rude to look up someone's Wikipedia article while talking to them.

"Which is where we come in," Washington adds, breaking in on Hamilton’s train of thought. "Lafayette wants to support Summer Break. He could increase our funding by an order of magnitude. We have the potential to expand our services, but I want to do it right."

"Which is where I come in," Alex says, understanding dawning.

"Who better than an alum to put these improvements into place?" Washington says. "I know you have a vision, Alex. Now we have the means to accomplish it."

"Oh, wow. Wow, wow, wow," Alex says, running his hands through his hair. "You're serious?" he asks Lafayette.

"I wouldn't toy with you," Lafayette says. "I just want to be involved. Tell me what you want to do, and I'll bring the money."

"Okay. Okay. First, the lodge. It's a converted barn, it's not wheelchair accessible, we gotta fix that, we gotta remodel. Food sucks, the kosher-slash-halal option's literally PB&J every day, we need better choices, we need to hire counseling staff for the kids—a lot of them come from violence, we need, we need people on call—and for gender and sexuality stuff, there's like no resources in their schools—we need more full scholarships, more outreach so people know we exist—multilingual, we need, we need translators for the informational booklets for their parents, Spanish, Vietnamese, Tagalog, Mandarin, Farsi, Arabic and that's just off the top of my head, I guess I have a couple—I have a couple ideas—let me get a pen—" Alex dumps out his bag on Washington's dining room table.

Washington is shaking trying to contain his laughter. "What'd I tell you?" he asks Lafayette, as Alex rummages around in the debris—ooh, half a muffin!—and eventually comes up with a pen and notepad.

"Okay, so, I'm just gonna list everything I can think of and we'll prioritize later," says Alex, ripping off a sheet and taking a bite out of the muffin. Mmm, blueberry, slightly stale. Where the hell had it come from, anyway?

"Hamilton, I am not going anywhere," Lafayette says. "You can take your time."

"Summer's only eight months away! If we want to change how we recruit kids we need to get those information packets translated, like, yesterday—can we…can we get the swimming pool working again? Was there something wrong with the—with the pump—oh, and the science enrichment lady we had my first year, with the iguana, she was, like, the coolest person ever, can we get her back? We need to find her before she makes other plans for the summer—we have so much to do!"

Alex's gaze falls on the cup of coffee he brought with him, thus far untouched. Washington's face falls as he reads his intentions, but he's too late—Alex seizes the cup and downs half in one go. "That's better. Now, we're remodeling the lodge anyway—you agree, we're remodeling the lodge?—okay, so while we're in there we might as well tear out the basement (since the floor's totally fucked up since those floods back in, what was it, '09?) and put more bunks down there, or maybe we can move the arts and crafts supplies in from the shed, since the squirrels get in and eat the yarn—"

Washington pulls out a much-folded map of the camp and spreads it on the table. "Which shed?"

"You have a lake?" Lafayette interjects, pointing at the map.

"Oh, yes, but we never use it because we can’t afford to hire life…guards…" Washington trails off, as Lafayette grins at him.

"I can fix that."

"Son, you're a gift," Washington says, and Lafayette blushes. Alex rolls his eyes. Son, that's how Washington gets you. Alex is apparently the only human on this planet immune to Washington's substitute-father powers. He takes another bite of the muffin and suddenly remembers where it's from: the 24-hour cafeteria in the hospital. He vividly remembers where he ate the other half: six in the morning, as John was coming out of surgery. His mouth goes totally dry, and he struggles to choke down his half-chewed food.

John's fine. He checks his phone to reassure himself. No new messages. John was going to meet with his dad for lunch; he's probably on his way there now.

"Hamilton?" Washington and Lafayette are both looking at him expectantly.

"Sorry, I was… distracted."

Washington gives him a pitying look. He knows everything that happened with John—Alex told him in a half-coherent email apologizing for missing class. "Do you need a moment?"

"No, everything's fine." Alex forces a smile, silences his phone. "About college counseling for our high-school-age kids. Without Washington's encouragement I would certainly never have applied to the undergrad institution I did, and his letter of recommendation was a huge help for me when I applied to law school here. But right now that process is completely informal. Furthermore, our students are mostly going to be applying for college during the fall, when we're normally not in contact with them. We should offer—"

And so they pass the next couple hours, Alex proposing ideas, Washington assessing feasibility, Lafayette chipping in every once in awhile. Alex really likes the new guy. When Washington gives a frank and bleak assessment of the current state of their facilities, Lafayette only shrugs and says, "I'm here to learn, not to teach." And he wants to be a counselor this summer! Plenty of philanthropists are willing to throw money at a problem. It takes someone special to volunteer their time.

They've settled on a to-do list, with plans to reconvene in two weeks, when Alex next checks his phone. The bottom of his stomach drops out. He has one text from John, from almost two hours ago.

**sos**

Alex sinks into a chair, hand over his mouth.

_what's wrong_

_John, what's wrong_

_answer me_

"Are you alright?" asks Lafayette, shrugging on his coat, one hand on the door.

Alex ignores him, calls John's phone and begins to pace as it rings. It goes to voicemail. "John," he says, "not funny, John, pick up your phone, you're scaring me."

Washington looks up, full of concern. "Is that Laurens?"

Right, Alex always forgets they know each other; John had Washington for first-year seminar, before he dropped out. Washington likes him. "It's not," Alex says, feeling sick. "That's the problem. He just texted S.O.S. and now he's not answering his phone."

He calls their downstairs neighbor. "Hey, Tara? Could you check if John is home?" A pause. "No? Okay, thank you. Did he say—nothing? Okay."

Alex's hands are clenched into fists. He takes a deep breath, willing himself to relax, and another idea comes to him. "He was going to meet his dad today—he might know what happened. Sir, do you have Henry Laurens' phone number?" It's a long shot, but Washington's a prominent figure in the legal world, and well-connected.

"I do." It's not Washington who says it, but Lafayette. Alex and Washington turn to him in surprise. He shrugs. "I'm fantastically wealthy and am not officially affiliated with either political party. I have a lot of phone numbers." He takes out his phone. "Why exactly am I calling?"

"I live with his son," Alex explains. Lafayette's eyebrows raise, eyes glinting delightedly. "Not like that. He, uh, he was shot while being stupidly heroic the other day. He was meeting Senator Laurens for lunch today. I just need to know he's all right."

"Right." Lafayette dials and raises the phone to his ear. A moment later, he lowers it, looking discouraged. "His secretary apologizes. The Senator is taking a personal day and is unavailable."

Alex grits his teeth. "He's—he's probably just asleep again, right?" Except people don't text S.O.S. before falling asleep. "I need to get back—I'm useless all the way out here—when's the next train…"

"I'll drive you," says Lafayette, not hesitating a moment.

"That—thank you, that would be good." Alex walks numbly out, barely remembering to grab his coat. He piles into the car, and calls the hospital where John works and was recently treated. They haven't seen him.

And then—a text from John's number. Alex's heart rate doubles.

**hi, this is mary**

John's little sister—the one Alex only learned about last week. For a moment Alex freezes, worst-case scenarios playing out in his head. He steels himself and texts back,

 _is john ok?_                                                              

***

John knows this ceiling, knows this bed. His APUSH exam is today—he's got to…he's got to…

He had the weirdest dream. Flashing lights, macaroni and cheese—there was this guy, Alex…

Fuck—that was real. APUSH was years ago. He's in his high school bedroom. His arm's still in its sling, supported by a pillow.

Holy mother of fuck, _that's_ what his dad meant by "home."

The room is pretty dark, but he can tell at a glance that it's just the way he remembers. The Save Darfur poster, the easel in the corner, the swimming trophies stacked haphazardly on the dresser, even…

"Oh my God, Shelly," he says. At the sound of his voice, the little red-eared slider swims over to the side of her tank. Treating his bad arm with utmost care—it's feeling much better now that the nerve's had some time to calm the fuck down—John pushes back the covers and sits up in bed. The fact that Shelly's still here, and apparently well-fed and happy, means that this room hasn't been abandoned—it's been maintained.

That's… creepily similar to what Dad did with the music room after Mom died. That probably says something about his dad's fucked-up psychology. On a more practical note, they have far too many damn rooms in their house if they can afford to just leave some as… mausoleums.

How long has he been asleep? John moves to check the time on his phone, only to realize that his phone isn't in his pocket. He checks the nightstand. No phone. Out the window, the sun is either rising or setting. He has no idea how much time has passed: he could have just taken a ten-minute catnap, or he could be Rip Van Winkle waking up a hundred years in the future.

His mouth goes dry. Jesus Christ, Alex. John had sent him exactly one text all day: **sos**. He thinks he remembers his phone buzzing in the car on the way here. Alex must be freaking out that he hasn't answered.

John staggers out of bed. His balance seems to have recovered at least a little, which means the Vicodin is working its way out of his system. That would argue against a catnap. He opens the door; the hallway lights are on. Phyllis is vacuuming the carpet. At the sound of the door opening, she looks up, and a delighted smile spreads across her face. "Well, look who's awake!"

Stressed as he is, John can't help but smile back. Phyllis, a black woman all of five feet tall, has been their housekeeper for as long as he can remember, and she was practically a second mom to him growing up. "It's good to see you," he says, as she strides across the carpet and folds him into a warm hug.

"The prodigal son returns," she says, squeezing his good arm gently. "I'll have to tell the prodigal father. You look like you need feeding."

"Actually, the prodigal son is looking to escape as quickly as possible and is wondering where his dad hid his phone," John whispers.

Phyllis looks indignant. "You're not staying for dinner? Your father said you'd be here a while.”

Dinner hasn't happened yet—okay, good, it's probably only late afternoon, which means he's been missing for… well, several hours, but not long enough for Alex to have called the cops. "I have no plans to go to any dinner. I just want my phone."

"I suppose that'll save me the trouble of having to clean you up. As for the phone, I haven't seen it. Mary was in your room earlier, though, she might know."

"Thank you so much, Phyllis."

"If I don't see you again, be sure to take better care of yourself," she says, with a significant look at his sling. "You look a fright."

"I missed you, too, Phyllis," he says, with a rueful grin, and backtracks along the hallway to his sister's room. He knocks at the door.

"Go _away_ , Dad!"

"It's not Dad."

"Jack!" The door flies open, and Mary's standing there, his phone in her hand. "Do you feel okay? Can I give you a hug?"

"Of course you can," he says, reaching out with his good arm and trying to avoid making some really inane comment like, _my, how you've grown_! "Although I need my phone back. Why did you take it?"

"Your boyfriend was blowing it up. I could hear it buzzing in the car. And Dad goes through my phone if I leave it around charging. I figured you wouldn't want him to take yours, so I sort of… took it in advance?"  

John blinks. God, Alex. He must be a wreck. "Mind if I come in?" _He's not my boyfriend_. Why doesn’t he just say that?

She stands aside, and he sits down on her bed. "You didn't actually tell Dad you wanted to come here, right?"

Ouch. "Um, Mary, I love you, but I hate this house. So, no, I did not ask to come here."

"I knew he was lying." Mary swallows and glances away. "So… you want to leave?"

John sighs, aware that he's hurt her and that if he wants to get out he'll be hurting her more. "Yes. Ideally as quickly as possible. And I need to tell my friend I'm alive, also as quickly as possible."

"Done," Mary says, holding up his phone.

"I have a lock code on that thing."

"It's 1-7-7-6, Jack. You're a huge nerd, did you know that?"

"Ah. So you've been… talking to Alex?"

"Oh, yeah. We're friends now, I think? He has a very strong personality, and also he thought I was trying to trick him at first, and he was worried about you, but I sent him a video of you snoring and he calmed down. He has a plan to get you out tonight. I think he’s crashing the fundraiser dinner."

John winces. That must be what Phyllis was talking about. "What are we fundraising for?"

"Dad's re-election campaign. All the biggest donors will be there, plus a couple small donors who won the lottery."

"… lucky them?"

"I know, right? Lamest lottery ever." Mary sticks out her tongue. "Anyway, he won't tell me what he's planning, or how he's going to get in, but when he got the idea he just typed a bunch of naughty devil emojis, so I'm looking forward to it. I'll tell him you're here. Actually, no, he'll want photo evidence." She leans in close and snaps a selfie with the two of them. "Ugh, you look awful."

"I wasn't ready."

"Your selfie game is weak, Jack."

"Hey, cut me some slack, I'm old."

"You know what? Just for saying that, I'm sending him that one." The phone buzzes. "He says you look like you're on something."

"Because I am. Can I drive?" John asks, making an uncoordinated grab for the phone.

"You literally just said you were on something. Anyway, you're a really slow texter."

“I have one arm!”

“Believe it or not, it is possible to text with one hand.” The phone buzzes again and she glances down at the screen. "He wants to know if you're feeling good enough to be at the dinner, and also how badly you want revenge on Dad."

"Yes and I'm honestly not sure right now. I think I'm mad. I mean, Dad kidnapped me, right? Like, I clearly stated that I wanted to go home and he just… he just…" The memory of the astonished, hopeful look on his dad's face in that moment stops him. "He really sincerely thought I meant here, didn't he."

Mary shrugs, looking at her hands. "We miss you, Jack."

"How can you miss me, though? I'm a terrible brother! And an even worse son!"

Mary makes a face and crosses her arms. "Please tell me we're not doing that thing where you insult yourself on purpose and then I say a lot of nice things about you so that you feel better. That's just…just really fucking annoying."

"You sound a little like my therapist. More profane, though."

Mary's face softens. "You have a therapist? I never knew that."

"Oh yeah. For like, five years now." John sighs. "You were just a kid when I left. I come back and here you are all emotionally insightful and shit." He thinks about it for a moment. "We could talk more often, if you want. Obviously you have ways now of getting around Dad's… stalking-his-children problems."

"I'd like that," Mary says, almost shyly. "But if you want to go to the dinner you're going to have to hurry."

"Please tell me it's not black tie."

"It's black tie."  

John groans. "I guess I'll be getting ready, then." He holds out his hand for his phone, which Mary yields with reluctance, then trudges off to meet his fate.

***

Twenty minutes later he's floating around the outskirts of the ballroom—he cannot believe how easily his younger self accepted that he lived in a house with a ballroom—praying nobody can tell he hasn't washed his hair in days. His old tux is tight in some places and baggy in others, but with Phyllis's help he was at least able to get his dress shirt and jacket buttoned, his bowtie tied, and his sling back on afterwards. He would never admit it, but he missed this a little—at least, he missed the part where he catches himself in the mirror looking like James Bond.

Of course, usually he's straight-pleated, debonair, beginning-of-the-movie James Bond, not slightly-crumpled, in-need-of-a-shower, middle-of-the-movie James Bond. Also, a martini would be a bad idea right now, shaken, stirred, or otherwise. But such is life. He sips his orange juice and watches for Alex.

His pocket buzzes, and he retreats to a corner to check his phone.

_we'll be there in 15 min tops_

_i'm gonna cause a SCENE_

_it'll be SO MUCH FUN_

"Jack!"

John turns to see Henry Laurens abandoning a fellow senator (R-AZ) to hurry over to him. "Hey, Dad."

"Are you feeling any better? Well, clearly you are, should you sit down?" Henry ushers him to one of the chairs at the edge of the room, his voice bursting with false heartiness. "I didn't expect you! You're in my speech tonight!"

"Wow, Dad, there's really, really no need for that."

"Oh, nonsense. I can't be proud of my own son?"

 _You can be proud of me without using me to score political points._ There are far too many people around to say that aloud. Journalists have attacked his dad in the press in the past for his shitty relationship with John--part of the reason, John always suspected, why his dad has always been so eager to make up, or at least to appear to make up. He’s not so sure anymore that his dad’s motives are entirely ulterior. It makes him want to tread carefully-- or at the very least, not get in a shouting match in public. "Really, I only came because I—I wanted to say goodbye to you before I go."

"Go?" Henry's face falls. "But you've only just gotten here!" He glances over his shoulder before ducking down and saying, "Son, I know I have some… some communication tendencies that may occasionally make things hard for you, but—but Mary really loves having you around, and—"

"Yeah, I've… I've got PT tomorrow. Gotta get healthy again, right?"

Henry nods, and John reads stifled disappointment in the way his eyes drop. "Absolutely."

Did he just… go along with something John wanted, just because John wanted it? Unprecedented. Is he planning something?  

As John stands there, trying to find the trap, Henry snags a woman out of the crowd, a slightly more sophisticated emotional redirect that his standard subject change. "Cheryl, I don't suppose you've met my son, John? John, Cheryl is an executive at a major financial firm, but she's also interested in LGBT issues. Cheryl, my son is… is involved with…"

"I'm super gay.” John says, recovering somewhat. He hands his juice to his dad so he can shake Cheryl's hand. "But I also volunteer with the Trevor Project."

"The Trevor Project, yes," his dad says, even though John's pretty sure he has no idea what that is, and he's certainly never told his dad that he works there.

John turns, determined not to let him off that easy. "I had no idea you supported gay rights!"

Henry fumbles with his collar. "Yes, well… position evolving… representing a family-values state…but obviously, personally, I…"

"Uh-huh," says John, sharing a look with Cheryl. "Would you excuse me for just a moment?" He leaves the orange juice in his dad's capable hands and turns away, pulling out his phone.

**please no scene**

_what?!_

_it'll be hilarious_

**my dad is trying**

**in his own pathetic way**

_but ive got it all planned out_

**no.**

Henry lives and dies by surface appearances. If Alex humiliates him in public, no number of private apologies from John will ever erase that. He’ll have burned that bridge forever--and God, John sometimes wishes he were strong enough to want that. But he doesn’t.

_ok ok!_

_be there like now_

There's a minor panic among the staff near the front door, which John hopes isn’t Alex forcing his way in. Hmm. There's too much fawning for it to be _bad_ panic. Probably some important dignitary has arrived, and from the reaction, it's not someone they expected.

John glances at his dad, who seems to share his confusion. John's phone buzzes one more time: _here_.

A harried staffer runs up and whispers in Henry's ear. "Lafayette?" Henry repeats, eyes going wide. "You're serious?"

"Yes, sir." Henry bulls off, the crowd parting before him, John trailing in his wake.

"Monsieur Lafayette," Henry smiles, striding up to the young man and shaking his hand warmly. "We didn't expect you this evening! Had I known you were coming, I would have arranged something—"

"Oh, the guards at the gatehouse were only too happy to accommodate me," Lafayette grins. John's pretty sure he's seen his face before, maybe on the cover of a magazine, but he has other priorities because Alex is there, his eyes scanning the room. When they fall on John his face lights up.

"Hey," John waves, suddenly feeling sheepish.

That's when Henry notices Alex. Anger flashes in Alex’s dark eyes as the senator steps forward, one accusatory finger pointing. "You—"

"Senator Laurens, allow me to introduce my good friend, Alex Hamilton," Lafayette says, positioning himself between the two men—a good idea, seeing as Alex looks even more ready to fight than John's dad does, nostrils flaring, fists clenched, angry spots of red on his cheekbones. John wasn't there to witness the scene, but the last time these two met, Alex ended up screaming his dad out of a hospital ward.

Henry stops, lowering the guilty finger. Then, slowly, he turns back to John. "You…you asked him here?"

John swallows. "Yes, Dad."

"You didn't lose that coat," Henry says softly.

For a moment, John has no idea what he's talking about. Then he realizes—Alex is wearing the black Burberry coat John gave him, with no idea what kind of signal that sends to Henry. He shoots John a quizzical look over Lafayette's shoulder.

"No, Dad."

"I suppose you'll be leaving with Mr. Hamilton, then?" Instead of cold, his dad just sounds… defeated.

"Yes." The crowd is watching carefully; John can feel them staring. He looks Henry carefully in the eye and offers his hand.

Henry reciprocates, and suddenly he’s a politician again, clasping John’s hand like he’s a voter in need of wooing. "Don't be a stranger, son."

"I'll try not." It's as close as he's ever going to get to a promise. The Capitol gossip mill will be churning enough tomorrow as it is.

Henry turns to Alex and extends a hand. For a moment it looks like Alex isn’t going to take him up on it, but then he gives a smile that looks truly dangerous and says, “Senator Laurens, lovely to see you again,” and yep, even from several feet away John can tell this is one of those handshakes where you grin for the cameras as you try to grind each other’s knuckles to dust.

"Oh, the pleasure’s all mine," Henry says through gritted teeth. "It’s good to know my son has a champion who is— "

"Passionate? Ferocious? Well-versed in privacy law?" The last one is barely audible from where John’s standing, the conversational equivalent of flashing a holstered gun.

Henry pretends he doesn’t hear. He turns to Lafayette. "Honestly, I'm not sure what role you're playing in all this—"

"Chauffeur," Lafayette says immediately. Then, in case that wasn't clear enough, he adds, "I am not donating to your campaign."

"Well,” Henry says, his smile growing a little stiff, “Let me know if you change your mind."

***

John walks out into the night with Alex, Lafayette leading the way to his car. Snowflakes are falling silently, lit almost gold by the porch lights. Alex offers him a steadying arm as they reach ice, which John takes. "He let me go," John says, not quite believing it. "He actually let me go and he didn't say anything awful this time."

"Well, I'd have roasted him alive him if he had," Alex says. He pulls John's black coat closer around himself against the cold, snowflakes melting in his hair.  

"He knew you would," John giggles, and he’s not sure if it’s the last of the Vicodin or just sheer relief at having Alex back that’s making him giddy. "I've seen my dad shake hands with Vladimir Putin, and he was not nearly as intimidated then as he was with you."

"Mmm. Scarier than Putin. I should put that on my resumé." Alex gives John a little sideways smile. "You look great in a tux, by the way."

"You two wait here," says Lafayette, “I’ll fetch the car.” He practically sprints away. Weird.

“Do you want to know what I had planned for you?” Alex asks, sidling closer.

“Oh, your _scene_?” John teases, bumping Alex’s arm. “You mean I didn’t just witness it?”

“What you just witnessed was as much restraint as I am physically capable of mustering.”

“So what were you holding back?” The easy smile vanishes from Alex’s face, replaced with a look of fierce determination, and John knows what’s going to happen a second before it does.

“This,” Alex says, and moves in to kiss him. John meets him with enthusiasm--too much enthusiasm, as it turns out, because Alex goes up on tiptoe at the same time John moves forward, and the result is a collision of skulls rather than lips.

“Jesus, John,” Alex laughs, ruefully rubbing his forehead, “you could just say no.”

“No!” John cries, grabbing him by the arm.

Alex’s face falls, and he steps rapidly away. Fuck, he looks devastated. “You mean--shit, I’m, I’m sorry, I--wow, I fucked up, I--”

“No, _not_ no, yes! Fuck! Alex, no!” Feeling he hasn’t made his point clearly enough, John skids forward on the ice, closing the distance between them.

Alex backtracks, hands raised. “Look, John, I’m really sorry, clearly I misread--”

John slips and recovers. “-- _fuck_ \--stand _still_ , Alex!” He slips again, and this time Alex catches him, one arm at his good arm and the other around his waist. “That’s better,” John says, and kisses him.

A couple seconds into the kiss Alex finally makes a noise of comprehension, but neither of them breaks away. Alex kisses like he lives: bold, curious, in it with all his heart and _wow_ , speaking of hearts John’s is fluttering in his chest like a bird, and soon he’s got his fingers in Alex’s black hair and Alex is gasping in his mouth and John loses track of time, loses track of himself; everything is just _Alex Alex Alex_ \--

“I brought the car,” says a voice about three inches away. Alex yelps and John swears and Lafayette continues, “I have no objection to continuing to watch you kiss, of course, but you showed no sign of slowing down and I do want to get home before, oh, noon tomorrow…”

“Right,” says Alex, face flushed, breathing hard. He wipes his mouth.

John gets a good look at the car. "Is this… is this the new Tesla?"

Alex gives him an incredulous look. “Since when do you care about cars?”

Lafayette only flashes a grin and climbs into the driver's seat.

"Alex, how do you know this guy?" John whispers in Alex's ear.

"We just met today," Alex whispers back.

"Why is he being so nice?"

"He's a friend of Washington's."

Not that he doesn't trust Alex's judgment—because he does—but John trusts Washington's more, especially when attractive men (attractive people at all, really) are involved. He slides into the back seat, and Alex gets in on the other side.

"Where to?" Lafayette asks, and John rattles off their address. The Tesla ghosts through the dark streets, Lafayette taking it slow in the miserable weather. "Everything good back there?"

"Fantastic," says John, finding the buttons for seat heat for Alex and himself and pushing them. "So, uh, thanks, I guess. For being our… getaway driver.”

“Pah, I am a hopeless romantic,” says Lafayette, waving a hand. “And may I add, on a more personal note, which I trust will not leave this car: I know a thing or two about powerful family, and about.... about the need to escape from that.”

John nods, but from the corner of his eye he sees that Alex’s expression has gone wooden, hands balled up in his lap. Alex, who doesn’t have a powerful family. Alex, who doesn’t have any family at all. John covers Alex’s fist with his own hand, brushing his thumb over Alex’s knuckles, until slowly his fist unclenches, and their fingers intertwine. Alex leans back on the headrest, and eventually John feels all the tension go out of his hand.

They reach the interstate, almost empty of other cars. Lafayette’s eyes find John’s in the rearview mirror. “You’re not gonna believe this,” John whispers, “but Alex is asleep.”

"Adrenaline crash," Lafayette diagnoses, and turns on some classical music at low volume. It's all strings, contemplative and tender.

“Wow,” John says, “you _are_ a hopeless romantic.”

“You are, too, I can tell,” Lafayette says primly. “In any case, my other music is, ah, not so good for sleeping to.”

A smiles tugs at the corner of John’s mouth. “Gotcha.” He watches the streetlights passing across Alex’s face and catching in the snow-damp mess of his hair and wants to suspend time: wants to save this gentle warmth, forever. But he knows this highway, knows these exits, and knows he only has ten minutes left, has to savor the time he’s got.

Lafayette parks the car in front of their apartment building, and John finally recognizes the gentle warmth inside him--God, he hasn’t felt it in so long. The feeling of being safe, loved, and almost back to your own place in the world. He doesn’t have to cling to it--it only gets better from here.

“Hey, Alex,” John says, gently squeezing his shoulder. “Alex,  wake up, we’re home.”


	2. Bonus content

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bonus content for you all: this is the text conversation Alex and Mary had while John was indisposed. I cut it from the fic because the pacing wasn’t right, but I thought at least some of you might enjoy reading it. Bold is Mary (on John’s phone) and italics is Alex.

**hi, this is mary**

_is john ok?_

**he’s with us. he’s asleep**

_that’s not an answer_

_IS JOHN OK?_

_who is us_

_why is he with you_

_why hasn’t he been answering me_

_why did he text me sos_

_why do you have his phone_

**we’re at our house**

**i told u he’s asleep**

**like really really asleep**

_IS. HE. OK?_

_I CANNOT EMPHASIZE THIS QUESTION ENOUGH_

_can you wake him up so we can talk?_

**no dude he’s totally out**

**dad says he took painkillers so that would be my best guess**

**do u want me to just send a picture**

_send video_

**weirdo**

**[video attachment]**

**see? snoring**

_you need to GENTLY elevate his bad arm a little more_

_put a pillow under it so he doesn’t move it accidentally waking up_

_DO NOT take the sling off_

_and if you want him to stop snoring you can turn his head a little to the side_

_in fact just do that_

_he’ll sleep better_

**ur so bossy and yet also adorable?**

**okay i did what u said**

**and before u ask here’s proof**

**[photo attachment]**

_acceptable_

_next question: WHAT_

**i don’t know**

**i asked dad and he’s not telling me anything**

**i swear**

**u still there?**

_…you realize what this looks like, right?_

**fwiw dad is also v emotional**

_FUCK HIS FUCKING EMOTIONS_

_JOHN WAS FINE THIS MORNING_

**…what are you implying here**

**my dad would NEVER hurt jack on purpose**

_look_

_i don’t know what happened_

_but i do know john_

_and i know he didn’t want to meet your dad in the first place_

_he only did it bc he felt guilty about scaring him with the whole getting shot thing_

_which was your dad’s own fucking fault for stalking him_

_but i digress :P_

**so… he didn’t want to come visit me**

_that was def not in his plans as we discussed them this morning_

_… i’m sorry :(_

**it’s okay**

**shouldntve got my hopes up**

_aww fuck_

_you seem like a cool kid_

_your brother’s missing out :(_

**ur not so bad i guess :)**

**i’m glad he has you to look out for him**

_i do my best :)_

_but yeah odds approach 100% john does not want to be there_

**well that’s awkward**

**dad’s already talking about plans for the next couple days**

_haha well too fucking bad cuz john has PT tomorrow_

_okay so we’re gonna do an extraction mission_

_are you willing to be our inside woman?_

**yeah**

**i guess**

**i mean**

**i just want to be clear that dad really does love jack (john?)**

_i don’t doubt it_

**he just doesn’t understand him or really listen to him like at all**

**so the ONLY reason i am helping you is bc you seem like you love my brother one whole hell of a lot AND u seem to do those listeny understandy things**

**u prob know him better than i do tbh :P**

_i do love him_

_one whole hell of a lot_

_that is a strangely apt expression_

_cuz like_

_these last couple weeks have been maybe not a whole hell? but at least a quarter of a hell_

_but i wouldn’t have been anywhere else_

_so yes_

_i love him one whole hell of a lot_

_for that matter why only one hell?_

_i am down for multiple hells_

_bring it on motherfuckers_

**ok ok i get it ur love outshines a thousand suns etc**

_sorry_

_how do we get in and get john out_

**we live in a gated community and security is super tight**

**we have to submit names to the gate in advance**

_so can’t you just submit my name_

**nope**

**dad’s the only one in our house who can add names to a guest list**

_ugh_

**yeah it’s like they don’t trust me wtf**

**there’s a big fundraiser tonight? lots of guests coming in… but you still won’t make it past the gate…**

_caterer?_

**our cook’s doing everything**

_you have a_

_nvm_

_florist?_

_maid service?_

**florist was already here. and we have a housekeeper**

_bahahaha_

_oh i’ve got it_

_the answer’s right here in front of me_

_oh this is gonna be great_


End file.
